


A Bard is Never Sick

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Cuddling, Fever, Fluffy, Gen, I keep these uncatagorized for a reason ;), Platonic Cuddling, Sickfic, Sort Of, Specific Warrior of Light, Thancred-centric, Very fluffy, i forgot f'lhaminn was in thavnair, jk, more important conversations on Beds, p....platonic cuddling?, rated T because of a Swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:51:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: .... His health is precisely what he needs it to be.(Someone needs to pay attention to Thancred this time around)(reading of other works in series not required)





	A Bard is Never Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Set pre-Stormblood. (Disclaimer:Pleaseforgetthatf'lahminnisinthavnair)  
> The Warrior of Light wasn't in a position to notice Thancred overworking himself way back when. The Scions... were. Now they both are.

Thancred was doing a very good job of having no one notice, or rather, his symptoms weren’t obvious enough for anyone _to_ notice.

He was quite relieved by that, actually, because while he cared for Tataru and Lyse dearly, their constant crooning would have probably been too much. Actually, no—Lyse would have most likely just laughed at him. Still, he did not want anyone to worry—even Y’shtola had borne a flattened countenance the last time he had been sick, and Thancred had felt like an imposition the entire time.

Of course, Minfilia had been there last time, and, well…

She had noticed—she had never failed to. And, gods, Thancred still _missed_ her, terribly—

But now was not the time to think of such things.

The front door jostled audibly, and Thancred nearly looked up from his reading at the sound, but then it opened—and that would be Ikael, back from training, with sore fists unable to turn a doorknob properly. It was not an irregular occurrence.

Surely enough, Thancred heard a muttered hiss before the door closed again, and reflexively smiled to himself. Fever or no, the thought was still amusing.

“Ah—do we have any extra ice?” Ikael spoke up, making his way over to where F’lhaminn was rubbing down the bar. “If not, that is fine.”

“We do, dear. Give me a moment to wrap it up,” Thancred heard F’lhaminn sigh. “Don’t want you giving yourself frostbite again from impatience.”

“Thank you,” Ikael said. After a minute or two that sounded like F’lhaminn going through her cupboards and shuffling about, he thanked her again.

Thancred looked up when he felt Ikael approach Y’shtola and himself, apparently determined to prod at them for conversation. Ikael was holding his right hand in a loose grip, gingerly pressing the wrapped ice to it—his left was red and swollen, but only slightly. He seemed physically tired, but otherwise his usual cheerful self.

“What are you both so focused on?” he asked, cocking his head.

“I am studying an ancient Padjali technique on aetheric transference through meditation,” Y’shtola replied as Ikael perched himself on the arm of a nearby chair, “And Thancred is reading something trite.”

“It is not trite.” It was trite. Although, truth be told, the words had been blurring into each other for a while, which in combination with his warm headache meant that he had been doing nothing more than idly staring at a page for the past hour. “It is poetry, beautiful and grand. A taste of the finer pleasures in life.”

“I’m sure,” Y’shtola said dryly, turning a page in her book.

“Poetry?” Ikael slid off his seat, moving to Thancred curiously. Then he was close, pressed against the back of Thancred’s chair as he tried to make out the words on the page. “Ah,” he said after a minute. “‘The ocean’s rolling caress,’ huh? Missing the proximity of the sea?”

“Hm?” Thancred shifted his grip on the book, which had gone lax in his hands, and squinted at the page. The title of the poem read _Love as a Rocking Boat._ “Oh. Not really, I suppose. There are too many things to focus on, here.”

“Are there?” Ikael looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t seem to be very focused.”

Thancred was somewhat surprised he had noticed, although he supposed he was being a bit hazy. “I find my mind drifting,” he replied, folding the book shut. “And, uh, I suppose it was getting a bit trite.”

“That so?” Ikael leaned forward, pausing for a long, strange second, before he straightened up and squeezed Thancred’s shoulder. “Come on; I want to talk to you about something.”

“I am all ears,” Thancred said, getting up. He had to steady himself on the back of his chair as a wave of dizziness washed over him, but it passed after a moment.

Ikael closed his fingers briefly around Thancred’s wrist, readjusting him, before letting go.

Y’shtola hadn’t reacted much during their exchange, except to make a small smirk when Thancred had admitted to his inferior reading choices, but she spoke up now. “Don’t let him keep you up with anecdotal sob stories about how he failed to woo some maiden with his terrible poetry,” she said.

“I won’t,” Thancred promised, and Ikael laughed, tugging him away.

~*~

“What is it you wished to discuss with me?” Thancred asked. Ikael appeared to be looking for somewhere specific—in fact, he seemed to be leading Thancred to his chambers. “Something private?”

“Not really,” Ikael said ambiguously. “Here.”

They had indeed stopped outside of Ikael’s room. Ikael reached for the handle, then remembered his hand and, after deliberating for a moment, wedged it down with his elbow.

“I hope you haven’t brought me here just because you cannot open a door,” Thancred said, eyeing him in amusement as they stepped inside.

Ikael squinted at him. “Shut up,” he said cheerfully. Thancred chuckled.

“So what did you—ah— _what are y_ —”

Ikael had grabbed his arm and pulled, swiftly. Thancred felt himself totter unsteadily as the room spun around him, the dizzying feeling accentuated by a red pulsing behind his eyes. He stumbled, nearly falling, before he felt two strong arms catch his weight and seat him gently on the bed.

He blinked rapidly, trying to think past the hot flash in his skull, but before he could gather himself, Ikael had pressed a palm to his forehead.

“You’re sick,” Ikael said.

Damn. “I…” Thancred closed his eyes, willing his vision to steady. “I’m just, ah… a bit light-headed…”

“Here.” Thancred felt Ikael move away, and then there was a cold glass of water being pressed into his hand. “Drink.”

Thancred obeyed gratefully. The cool sensation that spread through his limbs was a welcome relief. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

Then, strangely, the glass was being pried from his hands. “What—”

“You can have the rest when you admit that you’re sick,” Ikael said. He sounded far too content for someone who had just stolen Thancred’s only source of relief.

Thancred sighed, opening his eyes. The room was no longer spinning, although the end corners of it were a bit blurry. At the far wall stood a small cooking station—Thancred stared at it, wondering idly when Ikael had commissioned it.

He saw Ikael’s hand reach for his forehead again, and batted it away with a small frown. “Stop that,” he muttered.

“Mmhm.”

Thancred sighed. “I assure you, I am quite alright,” he said. He knew that if he admitted to his illness, Ikael would refuse to leave him be until he recovered. While it had been surprising but… nice, admittedly, when Ikael had noticed he was ill, he could not steal more attention from the man. Twelve knew the Warrior of Light had more important things to do than nurse Thancred’s ego.

“Thancred,” Ikael said pointedly, “I can tell you’re ill.”

“I’m not—”

“You have a fever.”

“I do not—”

“Not acknowledging it won’t make it go away.”

“I’m not acknowledging—I mean—I—there is nothing to acknowledge!” Thancred slumped, tired and confused by the conversation already. If it weren’t for the headache hammering nails behind his eyes, he was sure he could have made sense of it. As it was, he did not know what he was saying anymore. “I… gah—’m not sick.

“No?” Ikael’s voice was softer, and Thancred felt his eyes flutter closed as a cool hand pressed gently against the side of his face. “No,” he confirmed.

“I see.” Was Ikael speaking even quieter now? Thancred could still hear him, but the words did not make the cotton in his skull hurt. He was grateful.

“Your water will stay here, then,” Ikael said, and then there was a sweetly cold surface being held to his forehead. Thancred let out a little sigh.

Then his eyes snapped open. “I—” he started, and Ikael gave him a hard look.

Thancred sighed once more, finally conceding. “I have a small fever,” he said quietly, “But it is just that. A day or two and I shall be fine. There is no need for you to trouble yourself.”

“It is no trouble,” Ikael said, and handed him the glass, which he took hastily.

“There, was that so hard?” Ikael asked, watching Thancred as he drank. “Slowly, now.”

“Thank you for the patronizing, but I can handle myself,” Thancred said, letting a bit of a bite seep into his tone. He felt bad, but if a few short words were what he needed for Ikael to see no need to continue this, he would say them.

Ikael leveled him with a flat stare, and said nothing. Thancred shifted uncomfortably as a minute passed and he still hadn’t moved.

He shuffled his feet guiltily after it became too much. “Sorry,” he muttered, gaze cast down.

“Apology accepted.”

Thancred expected Ikael to leave him after that, and so was surprised when he simply shifted closer, a warm smile lifting his eyes.

“I’ll get you a wet cloth,” he said, pitching his voice low. “How are you feeling? Do you have a headache?”

“I—” Ikael’s concern was—kind, and pricked a spark of hopeful warmth in his chest. Thancred gave himself a mental kick. “Really, Ikael, ’tis nothing severe. As I have said, a day or two of rest should have me up to working standard in no time.”

“I don’t care about working standard,” Ikael said, instantly crushing all hopes Thancred had been harbouring about this being impersonal and thus not making him feel like an affection-starved child, “I care about your wellbeing. So tell me: headache?”

“Ah…”

“And don’t think there’s any way you can worm your way out of this,” Ikael said sternly. “Whether you like it or not, I am sticking by you until you recover completely. There is nothing you can say to sway me.”

“Apparently not,” Thancred muttered, feeling mostly guilty, but also aware of a creeping sensation of warmth that had nothing to do with his fever. “Well, if you will not leave me be… yes, I have a headache. It’s gotten worse since this morning.”

“This started in the morning?” Ikael queried. At Thancred’s nod, he added, “How much worse?”

“A significant amount,” Thancred said quietly. “I could not focus enough to read, and every word spoken at normal volume feels like a shout.”

“Alright,” said Ikael. “Here,” and Ikael’s now mostly melted ice rag was being thrust into Thancred’s hand, “Hold onto this until I can get something for you.”

He rose off the bed, and Thancred watched as he puttered around the room, bringing a clean washcloth to the culinary station to wet it. “You do not have to do this, you know,” Thancred said mutedly, a final effort, because he knew he had to.

“I know,” said Ikael. He retrieved the cloth and went back to Thancred. “I’m doing this because I want to,” he said as he held it up.

“Lay down,” he ordered. “And perhaps remove the blindfold, if you wish to—it won’t get wet, and this’ll work better.”

Thancred obeyed, closing his eyes as he sank into the pillows and telling himself that no matter how comfortable he was now, this was Ikael’s bed, and there was absolutely no possibility of him staying in it once the man himself needed it. Then there came the welcome coolness of a damp cloth being laid on his forehead, and he sighed in contentment.

“I’ll make us dinner,” he heard Ikael say, “But you don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to. Stay here while I fetch some salt—I appear to be out.”

Thancred wasn’t aware of Ikael leaving the room, only of the thick, stifling heat in his body casting a haze over all his senses. He felt himself sink into it, and then the next thing he knew he was shivering, strong tremors wracking his frame. The bedsheets were twisted—he was under bedsheets? When—?

“Thancred?” There was a presence nearby—Ikael, he remembered—and Thancred opened his eyes blearily. The room seemed to have gotten darker, lit only by a slow-burning lamp and the light of the cooking fire, its embers still smouldering. Ikael was kneeling next to him, concern and gentleness lacing his features. Thancred groaned.

“What…” The word came out as croak. He cleared his throat.

Suddenly there was a glass of water being held out to him, and after a little maneuvering, Thancred took a large draught of it. He shivered.

“You fell asleep.” Ikael had settled himself cross-legged on the bed. Thancred noticed that his hands were bandaged. “Are you feeling better? Because I hate to say it, but you look worse.”

“I…” Thancred trailed off. How was he feeling? He frowned, making to get up—and immediately fell back down as the room swam. His fingers loosened around the glass, and Ikael caught it just before it spilled.

“I feel cold,” Thancred said hoarsely. And weak, he didn’t add. That was the last thing he wanted to admit out loud, although he knew he must look beyond pathetic at this point. He could still make a pass at holding on to his dignity.

“Cold?” Ikael frowned hesitantly. “Thancred… you’re burning up. We need to get your temperature down—I have to get Y’shtola—”

“No!” Thancred said. Too quickly, but he didn’t care. He could not inconvenience yet another of the senior Scions. “I have had worse; this is manageable.”

“Mm.” Ikael looked unconvinced. “Either way, I—” He cut himself off with a pained look as Thancred failed to suppress a shiver.

Thancred burrowed further into the blankets, then remembered that this was Ikael’s bed and he couldn’t stay in it, and pushed them down. He shuddered at the rush of air that met him, sending chills through his body, but steeled himself against it.

“I have to…” he started, attempting to haul himself up. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness and managed to hoist himself up into something of a sitting position, but then Ikael pushed him firmly back down.

“No,” Ikael said shortly.

“But—”

“No protests.” Ikael frowned at him. “You are not leaving the bed until I say so, and you are _definitely_ not leaving the room unless it is to move to the infirmary. I don’t care where you want to go.”

“It’s your bed,” Thancred protested, voice weak.

“I can manage,” Ikael said. “Failing that, we can share—although even if you do feel cold, I hesitate to raise your body temperature any further. Are you hungry?”

Thancred couldn’t be bothered to be confused about the abrupt change in topic. “No,” he said, “But I will eat.” He knew he had to.

Ikael moved away, and came back with a hot bowl of broth and a spoon. He helped Thancred to sit up, and watched him closely as he ate.

“It’s good,” Thancred murmured around the heat in his hands (how Ikael had managed to keep it warm was beyond him, but he did not give it much thought).

Ikael quirked a smile. “I _know_ you can’t taste it very well,” he said. “Nevertheless, I shall take a compliment when it is due.”

Thancred chuckled weakly. “Humble, aren’t we?”

Ikael leaned back against the headboard, stretching his legs out. “Someone has to keep my inner culinarian’s ego up,” he said. “Most people somehow care more about the eikon-killing than the quality of my lamb stew.”

“Surely, your talents are wasted as a warrior,” Thancred drawled. Then he glanced down to where his meal lay half-finished. “I think I am done,” he said quietly, an apology already on the tip of his tongue.

Ikael did not admonish him for not completing his meal, nor did he reproach him. He simply said, “Alright,” and took the bowl away.

Thancred felt a surge of gratefulness for his quiet friend. Although Ikael did tend to keep his opinions to himself, Thancred was most certain they were ones he would find agreeable.

“Are you tired?” Ikael asked him softly, and at even the suggestion, Thancred felt his eyes closing. Ikael was so… so kind, and the broth had been warm, and…

“Sleep well, then,” said a voice, and Thancred barely registered himself being gently laid down and tucked in, and a comforting presence curling up next to him, before he was fast asleep.

~*~

Thancred jolted awake mere hours later to darkness, feeling like death frozen over. He croaked helplessly, reaching out blindly to a faint heat near his side—and came into contact with something that felt warm and solid. Shivering, he tried to grasp it.

“Wha’?” a voice mumbled, and then the solidness was moving. “Thancred?”

He knew that voice. “’kael,” he identified, and smiled. He liked Ikael. He was brave, and kind (if a bit soft), and a good hugger.

“What is it?” Ikael asked. “Do you need something?”

“Cold.” Even as Thancred said the word, a harsh chill racked his body. He exhaled shakily.

“Oh.”

Ikael started moving again, and then he was pressed up close to Thancred, and there was an arm resting on his chest and a warm, warm line against his body. Thancred shivered and instinctively pulled him closer.

“Is this good?” Ikael asked, and Thancred managed to nod absently, forgetting that there was no way Ikael could see the motion in the darkness.

“Okay,” Ikael said softly, knowing somehow anyways—Ikael always managed to do things, which was pretty impressive, really—and then he moved a bit and there was a small weight resting on Thancred’s shoulder and something furry brushing against his chin.

“Hm,” Thancred said, to tell Ikael, and the furriness twitched. Thancred gave a little grunt of surprise, decided he didn't care, and brought a hand up to pull Ikael’s arm closer to his chest before falling back asleep.

~*~

Thancred awoke to the feeling of an aching, bone-deep weariness permeating his body, a harsh pounding in his skull, and someone cuddling him.

Under any other circumstances he would at least have some smart comment to make about the latter point, but right now all he could think about was the fact that he was a disgusting, sweaty mess, he felt like death, and the scorching heat of Ikael’s form meant he couldn’t breathe properly.

“G’morning,” he croaked, carefully pushing at Ikael. “Off, please—need t’piss.”

“Oh!” was Ikael’s response, and he bolted upright in a motion that Thancred almost found comical. “Yes, of course,” he said, and scrambled off the bed before freezing in the middle of the room, looking confused and half-awake at best.

Then he slowly pivoted on his heel to face Thancred.

“You’re sick,” he said.

Thancred found it in him to be amused. “Yes,” he said.

“Okay.” Now Ikael was moving around, too quickly—Thancred eyed him lazily, unsure of what was going on. “Shit, you felt like a _furnace_ , Thancred—Y’shtola is going to kill me. I’ll run you a bath, and you’ll hate it because it’ll be cold, but you need it, alright? Are you hungry?”

Thancred stared at him, sure that he had been asked that question possibly less than ten minutes ago. “No,” he said.

“Excellent, I’ll make breakfast.”

Ikael helped him out of bed, and then hovered around him when Thancred muttered something about being able to walk to the bathing room _himself_ , thank you very much, and then he drew Thancred a bath, and then Thancred shut the door in his face.

Two minutes later Thancred yelped. The water was cold.

~*~

There was a change of clothes and a clean towel waiting for Thancred when he nudged the door open, and he blinked at it for a moment, utterly confused, before shrugging and dragging it inside to put on. It was only when he was plucking at the top with the dubiously low neckline that he realized Ikael must have picked it out, and smiled. The man had a… questionable taste in fashion, to be sure, although at least his subligar days were over.

The stone wall outside the bathing room was cold. Thancred leaned his head against it—just for a moment, of course. A trickle of water ran down his neck from his hair, and he exhaled wetly at the sensation.

“Thancred,” said a familiar dry voice.

Thancred startled, reaching out a hand to steady himself against the wall. Y’shtola stood there with her hands on her hips, eyeing him with a frown. Beside her, Ikael was shifting his weight from foot to foot, nibbling at his lip nervously. Thancred narrowed his eyes at him. Traitor.

Thancred sighed, and gave a little half-bow to the best of his ability. He did not want to fall over. “To what do I owe the pleasure, m’l—”

“Can you handle him?” Y’shtola appeared to be speaking to Ikael.

Ikael squinted at Thancred. “I’m definitely stronger than him right now.”

“I am _right here_ ,” Thancred groaned. “And keep yer bloody voices down. S’no need to shout.”

“Someone’s irritable,” Ikael said, detaching Thancred from the wall and taking his weight easily. “I’ll pretend that all I heard was ‘mumble mumble mumble,’ since that’s what you sound like.”

Thancred could _elocute_. “No,” he muttered, because it made sense. “Why’re ye so _bumpy_?”

“Get him to the infirmary, and I’ll take a look at him,” Y’shtola said. She might have added something else, but Thancred had discovered that Ikael’s hair was very soft, and made a nice face pillow. It almost made up for his bumpiness.

“Those are _muscles_ , Thancred,” Ikael complained out of seemingly nowhere. “I’m _strong_. I am an available, attractive young miqo’te with a lot of personality.”

“That sounds rehearsed,” said Shtola, who was maybe not as nice but had pretty eyes. Thancred couldn’t hear her too clearly because someone was buzzing heat at him, which was very rude.  

“… eventually. Why didn’t… sooner?”

“… insisted… out of bed.”

“He’s not even… about to collapse...”

“ _Shh!_ ” Thancred hissed at them, which took a lot of effort, enough that he fell, but it was onto something soft.

He nuzzled into the softness—a pillow—and grunted in annoyance when someone tried to press something to his mouth. He wanted to sleep.

“Drink it and I promise I shall leave you be.” That was Shtola, and for a moment she sounded mellow enough that Thancred complied. She said something along the lines of “Now you can rest,” but Thancred was already asleep.

~*~

This time when he awoke he felt scratchy and weak, but with a decidedly more regular body temperature.

His eyelids felt glued together. He unstuck them with minimal effort, blinking rapidly at the dryness of the air. His mouth had a bitter taste to it, and his muscles felt sluggish, but when he sat up, the room did not spin. He was in—the infirmary. Oh.

“Careful there,” came Y’shtola’s voice, and Thancred glanced over to see her sitting cross-legged in a chair by his bedside. He would have thought she looked normal except for the wayward strand of hair brushed hastily to the side, the wrinkles in her normally kept tunic, the tinge of tiredness to her gaze.

“My lady,” Thancred croaked dryly, and then cleared his throat. Y’shtola passed him a glass of water—the same one as earlier, probably—and he took a few careful sips.

“Y’shtola,” he tried again, and the word came out easily enough. “I thank you for… seeing to me. You did not need—”

“Stop,” she said, holding up a finger. “Thancred…” She glanced down, mouth pursed. When she looked up again it was… to his shoulder. “At first I told Ikael off for not bringing you to me earlier, but then he,” she frowned, barely, “he pointed a few things out to me. And he was right.”

Thancred did not know what she was talking about—he had been in no state of mind to eavesdrop on them. “I am afraid I do not know of what you speak,” he said.

She sighed. “You have been harder for me to see,” she said, “As of late. Any aetheric flux of your person is minimal, but still, I should have noticed you were ill.”

He frowned at her. Was that it? “Y’shtola, do not concern yourself with that. I was trying not to let anyone notice; even as a healer, you were not at fault.”

There was a short, heavy silence, and Thancred knew that his words had reminded both of them of the same thing. He winced. “It was a fever. I was not liable to… I was not overworking—”

“Even back then, I should have noticed!”

He stared at her, startled by her outburst. Such a thing was atypical of her. Y’shtola composed herself quickly, but when she continued, her voice was firm.

“Forgive me. I am… somewhat tired. No—Thancred. Let me speak. We did not check up on you then, we did not pay your state enough mind, and look what happened. And now, if _Ikael_ of all people noticed something was wrong, I most definitely should have. And… I am not just speaking as a healer.”

Thancred's brow creased. “Shtola. I should not be a bur—”

“ _Accept_ an apology, you self-sacrificing oaf,” she snapped.

He blinked, and she stared harder at his shoulder, and then, after a few, precious moments that dangled forever in the air between them, the tension in the room broke, and Thancred leaned back on the headboard and laughed. Y’shtola rolled her eyes, but started to chuckle as well.

“Ah… Twelve, you should have seen Ikael. He was acting as if you were liable to drop dead at any moment. I had to threaten your wellbeing to get him to leave you be so I could work. Oh, speaking of—”

She activated her linkpearl. “Ikael?” she said, “Thancred is well enough for you to come in, now.”

A moment passed and she frowned. “Ikael?” she repeated, “Are you there?”

Thancred had a suspicion. He switched on his own linkpearl. “Ikael!” he barked, “Wake up.”

 There was a sudden crashing noise from outside the room, and then Ikael stumbled in hurriedly, looking dishevelled. “What, what? Did something happen to Thancred? Is he—”

He stopped when he saw Thancred eyeing him with an amused expression, and then _beamed_. “You’re awake!” he said, immediately scrambling over. “Are you feeling better? Do you want some water? Are you hungry? I have a maple almond pie cooking in the big oven for you, but it’ll take some time—”

“Calm down. I am indeed awake and feeling better, but I would appreciate it if you spoke quietly, and in slow sentences,” Thancred said, if only to make Ikael not keel over in his franticness.

“Oh! Sorry,” Ikael said, pulling up a chair. He folded his hands together over his lap. They were bleeding somewhat.

“The fever has passed, but Thancred still needs to rest and recover,” Y’shtola told him. “You are improving in bedside manner, Ikael, so I shall allow you to help him if you so wish.”

Thancred mock-groaned. “What have you condemned me to?” he groused. Then, to Ikael, “If you try and cuddle me again I am pushing you off the bed.”

Ikael raised an eyebrow. “Me?” he questioned. “’Twas not I that initiated it, as I recall. Oh, and did you know you have the most… _darling_ accent when you are sick? It’s like your drunk one, but more difficult to understand.”

Thancred grunted. Ikael’s face was pleasant enough, but the words sounded mocking. “This is the only accent I have.”

“…Ah,” said Y’shtola.

“‘Yer a r’el bumpeh pilloah, ‘kael,’” Ikael imitated. “‘Yar.’”

Thancred was scandalized. “I did not say ‘yar.’”

“I’m improvising,” said Ikael, while Thancred shot a subtle glance at Y’shtola. She seemed to notice, and shook her head. Of course. He had never been a _pirate_. That… had been _one_ time.

“Go see to your sugary treat,” Y’shtola ordered Ikael, “And let Thancred recover. He should be mostly better by tomorrow, but for now he needs rest.”

“Yes, of course,” said Ikael, getting up. He shot Thancred a smile, which he returned, and made to leave.

Y’shtola called out after his retreating form, “And for _gods’_ sake Ikael, wash your hands.”

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> The WoL was both away from thancred for most of 2.0, and didn't know him well enough, I think. But hey, it's been a while since then.  
> This marks the end of all mostly-written fic i have (that i want to post)! They keep getting lighter, haha. I have one more major idea, and then we'll see!
> 
> [ hint](https://draw-you-coward.tumblr.com/post/169169240667/happy-new-year-3) for next fic if u'r interested (i made it for new year's but it still works)


End file.
